HOME OF THE EMPRESS JOSEPHINE. 317 



of one, the last. It was morning, the sun had not 

 appeared above the hills, as, guided by a little negro, 

 I took the footpath up the valley, south, reaching the 

 narrow lane between the hills on the west and the 

 river. Cool and grateful was the shady vale. Jessa- 

 mine and frangipanni and acacia, bent low beneath the 

 weierht of last night's showers and sweetened the air : 

 birds, few in species but many in number, burst into 

 song as we passed. A little wren, that had its habita- 

 tion beneath the eaves of the sugar-house — doubtless 

 a descendant of those who sang carols to Josephine — 

 delighted me with a trill of melody. We passed 

 beneath a tall silk-cotton tree, hung with silken flowers, 

 about which were buzzing bees and glancing hum- 

 ming-birds ; across the stream on rude stepping-stones ; 

 a little farther, past groups of mangos, and across a 

 rude bridge, till we reached a cliff, its face hidden be- 

 hind a veil of vines. Then beneath a wide-spreading 

 mango we halted, and I climbed a great rock and pre- 

 pared for my morning bath. 



There were places in the river better than this, 

 deeper and wider; but there was an association here, 

 clinging to water-rounded bowlders, to gray cliff and 

 gravelly basin, that rendered this little nook doubly 

 charming. It was the favorite resort of Josephine, 

 where daily, at early morning, she came to bathe. 

 This tradition has been handed down from parent to 

 child among the negroes, whose ancestors were slaves 

 here, on this very estate, and is better based than the 

 tales of distant biographers. " Lc bain de VlmpSra- 

 trice? it is called to this day. Though time and flood 

 and earthquake have changed it much since then, and 

 its original proportions somewhat lessened, it still 



